


Promises

by allofthefandoms



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Overdosing, Post Season 2, Post-Fall, Reunions, Serious Injuries, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-21
Updated: 2012-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-08 06:34:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/440217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allofthefandoms/pseuds/allofthefandoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Sherlock could have taken back the last two years he had spent tracking down Moriarty's web, he would've. In a heartbeat. Just so John wouldn't have to make that face, so he wouldn't have to feel that pain, so his heart wouldn't be burning in his chest. But there was nothing he could do now except apologize and hold him and tell him everything would be better now... and hope that that was enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promises

**Author's Note:**

> So yeh, more depressing post Reichenbach fic... 
> 
> Please heed all the tags! Could be triggery.

He’s dying, Sherlock. He needs you. –MH  
Figuratively or literally? –SH  
St. Bart's does not take figurative cases, Sherlock. It was an overdose. –MH

How is he? –SH

He is not awake yet. He wouldn't stop seizing. -MH  
Prognosis? –SH

Unclear. You know as well as I do that there could be serious brain trauma. He was not breathing for an extended period of time. –MH

However, my greatest concern is that next time, he will use the gun. –MH

You of all people know that I can't. –SH

Doing this would only hurt him more. –SH

I assure you there is one thing John wants in the world more than anything and that is your return. What is left of Moriarty's web is no longer a threat to you, or, frankly, anything you should concern yourself with. –MH

And could you live with yourself if he died because of you? –MH

Mycroft, I don't know what to do. –SH

I'm scared. –SH  
You love him, do you not? –MH  
I think so. Yes. –SH  
Then come home. You left to save him, and you must return to save him. –MH  
He's in Bart's? –SH

Yes. He has been there for two days now. You'll most likely run into Lestrade there as well, now that he has no job. -MH

That was a cruel thing to do to him, you know. However, I assure you that he will have a position when he so chooses. -MH

They lost everything because of me, Mycroft. I wouldn't blame them if they don't forgive me. –SH

And thank you, for everything you've done. –SH

They have never stopped believing in you, Sherlock. You'll have to trust that. –MH  
And just because you are insufferable doesn't mean I don't care deeply for you. –MH

I hope so. I'll be there in half an hour. –SH

~ ~ ~

Lestrade sat pensively by John's bed. It had been over 2 days since his overdose and he was still under. The doctors had been slowly weaning him off the sedatives, but such little progress was disheartening. If he didn't wake up soon, he could be in a permanent coma.

 

Sherlock rested his hand on the door of John's hospital room, trying to work up the courage to enter. He had stood there for a few minutes already, but no one had taken any notice of him - and why should they? It was almost three in the morning; the hospital was quiet, the only sounds were the muffled shuffles of slippered feet and the occasional door softly shutting. Sherlock had thought of a million different scenarios, how each of them could play out, and as much as he would pride himself on being able to deduce a person's actions and reactions to any given moment, he simply couldn't be certain how this would end.

 

He took a deep, steadying breath and gently pushed the door open, his heart stopping as his eyes alighted on John's still figure. Tubes and wires cradled his fragile body, the soft bleeping of the ECG was the only indication that he still lived.

 

He had caused this... it was his fault.

Tucked into the shadows, Lestrade didn't really recognize that anyone had come in. He had heard the creak of the door, but assumed it was one of the night nurses come to check on their still patient. The long shadow that came to his feet looked like Mycroft somewhat. Lestrade shook his head, trying to clear weeks of exhaustion from his head.

The door clicked close as Sherlock walked over towards the still form on the bed. He rested his hand on John's own, his fingers curling around to take his pulse as if to reassure himself that he truly was alive. He bought his other hand to John's face, lightly caressing his cheek. Sherlock barely noticed the tear that escaped his eye as he looked down upon John Watson, the man that he had never told him he loved. "I was so alone," he whispered, "and I owe you so much, John. Please, wake up."

"You back off you wanker! You leave well enough alone!" It couldn't have been Sherlock. He wasn't allowed to touch John like that, with that much longing, after what he had done. He found a grip on Sherlock's collar over the bed and tried to push him away. He started at how thin he was.

It was like before, Lestrade realized. When he was an addict stumbling into crime scenes. When Lestrade had let him crash on his couch to get clean, back before John. An unexpected knot formed in his throat and his grip eased.

"Tell me why, Sherlock. Please..."  
Sherlock stumbled back as Lestrade gripped him, startled at the sudden attack - he hadn't noticed anyone else there. He peered at the ex-detective, trying to see him, really see what the years they had been apart, had done to him. "Lestrade..." he didn't know where to begin - all of his excuses seemed flimsy, contrived next to the destruction he had caused. "Greg," he began again, "It had to happen. I had to, and I am so, so sorry."

"John was the last thing left, Sherlock." Lestrade hated the shake in his voice. "They took my badge, my work, everything and the only thing I had left was John. John who was in such worse shape than me. I let him move in, so I could take better care of him. We've lived together for the past year, we grew close, bonding over football, missing you, comforting each other when we couldn't sleep, and then THIS happens just when I think he'll be ok. You're a right bastard." Lestrade sat down, week kneed. "But the thing that hurts the most is that you are the only one who can save him..."

Sherlock was unsure of how to proceed, of how much to tell Lestrade. He walked slowly over towards him and sat down heavily, deciding that it was probably best if he knew everything - as Mycroft said, he just have to trust that Lestrade would still be there when he finished. Taking a deep breath, he spilled everything that he had kept bottled up for two years and steeled himself for the barrage of hate and anger that he knew was to come. All Lestrade could do was let out a sigh, trying hard not to cry. 

"We missed you so much, Sherlock..." The tears ran like acid down his face. He hadn't cried properly for Sherlock once, and here he was, doing it the moment he found out that the man wasn't dead. "At his worst, when I found him at the bottom of a bottle, he told me that the one thing he regretted most was not telling you how much he loved you. So if..when he wakes up, you take care of him, you hear? Because if I can't have him, he'd better be with someone who loves him."

Sherlock nodded stiffly, choked on his own emotions. "I plan to." He stood again and walked towards John, unwilling to leave his side for longer than he had to. "Thank you," he whispered to Lestrade, hoping that it conveyed the enormity of the sentiment.

Before Lestrade could say anything more, John gave a gasping moan, choking around the tube that until just a moment ago had been the only thing keeping him breathing.

"Doctor!" Lestrade shouted, trying to hold John still. "He can't breathe!" He was almost pushed into Sherlock by the press of medical staff that rushed in. He couldn't watch, and turned to Sherlock for some sort of comfort.

Sherlock wasn't in any position to offer comfort - he stood by helplessly, his eyes wide, barely breathing. No, no, John couldn't die, he couldn't be dying, not now that Sherlock was here, not now that he was here to help. He had promised to protect him, promised to love him, and he was... dying and there was nothing Sherlock could do.

A nurse came over to the pair of them, a smile on her face.

"He seems to be awake and aware enough; though I am afraid his memories were a bit scrambled. He was asking for Sherlock. That was the dead man's name, yes? Poor bloke..."

"He's awake?" There was a desperate numb hope in Lestrade's voice. "Not dying?"

"No, not dying. The tube is almost impossible to breathe with when a patient is breathing under their own power. It is a common reaction."

"He's... alive?" Sherlock didn't even wait for the nurses' reply, instead pushing past her and into the room. He had to see for himself, he had to see... "John."

Sherlock had moved before Lestrade had noticed, and he turned to watch. John was clearly in some pain, and his eyes widened when he saw Sherlock's manic face.

"You're... Dead, Sherlock..."

Sherlock shook his head mutely, unable to speak. He slowly took a few steps closer, unwilling to overwhelm John - who knew what would happen?

"Please tell me you’re real…" It was a whimper, a breathy prayer, and John twitched out his hand, unsure if it would meet anything solid. "If you really are real...You shouldn't have left. Because I love you so much..." Pain and tears and love all warred for his face, and there was this molten feeling somewhere in his chest that made him breathless. "Please..."

Right then Lestrade wanted to bundle Sherlock away so John wouldn't hurt, but he forced himself to stay still.

If Sherlock could have taken back the last two years he had spent tracking down Moriarty's web, he would've. In a heartbeat. Just so John wouldn't have to make that face, so he wouldn't have to feel that pain, so his heart wouldn't be burning in his chest. But there was nothing he could do now except apologize and hold him and tell him everything would be better now... and hope that that was enough. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, as he walked the last few steps to John's side to pick up his hand.

At the touch of that hand, John felt like his heart would stop or explode. He wasn't quite sure which. He pulled Sherlock down to him with what little strength he had just to feel the weight of him. He felt so thin, all bones and skin, and John frowned.

"You haven't been looking after yourself, Sherlock. The least you could have done for me was eat." His voice was so fragile.

"He's a real wanker, our Sherlock," Lestrade said quietly. "But things will get better."

The side of Sherlock's mouth quirked up slightly as he heard Lestrade's remark, marveling at how quickly things seemed almost normal. "I could say the same to you," he said quietly as he placed his hands each side of John, trying to support his own weight and allow him to rest.

"I was taking care of myself. When things hurt, you do something for the pain, right?" The nurse must have put something in the drip, because his eyes were getting heavy. "I just... If it hadn't been for Greg, I would have killed myself years ago. I just knew I couldn't go on without you. But I held on for him. And because of him, I couldn't use the gun. Didn't want him...to come home to that... Good thing..."

Sherlock hushed him as he saw John was drifting into sleep. He gently stroked John's hair out of his eyes, thinking how the motion felt so natural to him now even though a few years earlier he would never have considered such a thing. "I'm here now, and I am so, so sorry..."

"love you so much..." He murmured. "Don't leave me..."

~ ~ ~  
Sherlock was fast asleep next to John - he hadn't slept properly since his 'death' and finally seeing John had set something off inside him and allowed him to settle down.

When John woke in the hospital, there was a heavy warm presence next to him. He shuffled sleepily and rolled over, thinking it was Greg, who had not left his side since Sherlock's death. There was something so incredibly soothing about the body next to him that he wiggled over to try to get closer. And was confronted with Sherlock's gaunt but relaxed face.

"No, no, NO!!" He violently shoved Sherlock out of his bed, heart racing. "You didn't, you bastard. You didn't fake it! I will never forgive you if this was some sort of...Some sort of trick!"

Sherlock awoke with a thump as he landed on the floor - it would almost have been comical had he not heard John's cries on the bed. He stood quickly, his heart hammering in his chest as he tried to calm him down. "John, I'm sorry, please, just listen!"

"YOU LEFT ME! Left me to dream of your bloody body every night, left me to turn to drink, and once, before Greg came, I even tried drugs. Anything to forget you for an hour or two. And now you're back? Just back like nothing is wrong?" John flashed back to the first memories he had of being awake, the groggy pain and the joy and the love and...

"Oh god, that really was you..." The breath was punched out of him. "I told you that I love you." It caused a sick bolt of dread.

"John, I am so sorry - for everything. I..." Sherlock took a deep breath and tried to think of how to explain away the hurt and anger that he had caused. "I did it all for you, and I know it doesn't seem right now, but please, believe me when I say that it was the only way."

"The only way..." There was a twisted sad bitterness to his voice. "That is just what you'd say. Everything you do is justified in that sick head of yours. I can't believe you." John began to cry. "I love you so much and you hurt me.... Hurt me so much I wanted to die... Promise me you won't do it again." The last bit was a murmured sob. "It’s the only way I can begin to forgive you."

Sherlock nodded readily, knowing that there was no way he could give John any other answer. He picked up John's hand and shook it to emphasize his words, "I will never leave you again, John Hamish Watson. I promise."

"You'll...stay?" The crying was bordering on ugly. "...Why? I'm boring... Can't keep myself together... Helplessly devoted to a sociopath..."

Sherlock shook his head as he too began to cry, "No, John. You're everything that I'm not, everything that I've ever missed, everything that I need. I - I love you."

The words hit him like someone had flipped the switch on gravity. He went from being too heavy to breathe to feeling like his stomach was somewhere in his mouth, or even near the ceiling. He struggled to sit up, wanting nothing more than to wrap his arms around Sherlock. But he was heavy, still exhausted by sedatives and days of being unconscious. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock forced him back down onto the bed, "No, rest. We'll talk about it later, okay? I'll be here," he said with a smile as he held John's hand warmly in both his own, "I promise."

"Hold me...?" The request was a tiny whimper. "Want to feel you next to me."

Sherlock resumed his position on the bed, and held John close, "Just promise me when you wake up," he said with a smile, "You won't push me out again."

John held out a shaking hand. "Promise."


End file.
